a human. for now.
Sirens. Not the ones on the sea. The other ones. Police. Ambulance.Police again. Somewhere there’s an emergency. I would never call for an emergency vehicle myself. My problem is I’m not sure what describes an emergency exactly. I’m never convinced that I’m near death. If I were I would tell myself I’m not because most of the time, at least so far, I’ve been right. All I know is not dying. But I feel as though I’m dying every day traveling this same road. Not from chest pains or anything. Mostly from the same stuff everyone suffers from. You’re pretty sure you could be doing something better with your life but you’re not. And you don’t know how. You’re biggest fear is spending your life doing that which you hate. That seems like an emergency. But the sirens drive right by. They don’t care how I spend my life. Just how it ends.
The Phantom Replica sat on the floor of a dilapidated shack. Alone. With a shovel. Outside were dozens of unmarked gravesites. He opened his hand and watched a worm circle around his palm trying to read his future. He ate the worm. He took the shovel, chose a grave at random, and dug. More worms appeared. He ate them. They didn’t read his future. He dug more. He sat on a wooden coffin after eating the large pile of worms that gathered on it. His legs crossed. Back straight. Eyes closed. He was as still as a statue.